Sometimes I think I’m not tough enough to live in New York City.  Sometimes I think I’m too tender a soul for the harshness of city life, too sensitive to the constant whir of energy, too vulnerable to the neuroses so prevalent in our urban existence.

Sometimes I fantasize about packing everything up and moving to the country, where there’s quiet and space and calm.  I dream of tall grass and pastures and cows. (But, I’m not touching the cows. I am a city girl, after all.)  I imagine a simpler life.

But as I walked home from work tonight—bike messengers frantically weaving in and out of pedestrians crossing the street and impatient drivers rolling their cars into the crosswalk—I suddenly remembered my afternoon in Central Park a few days ago.  Standing on a busy street corner, I leaned in to the memory of the pockets of peace I found as I trekked down its pathways.

I’ve written about its magic before, but it surprises me every time I go.  Then I wonder why I don’t go more often.

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I feel fortunate to have this to fall back on when life gets intense.

New York is my city.  It is tough and hard edged.  It is beautiful and awe-inspiring.  It is unpredictable and stunningly reliable, all at the same time.

It is a mess and it is perfect.

Just like us.

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